


the roses on your face light up the sky

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Implied Drug Use, M/M, Makeup, Post canon, implied prostitution, self exploration, self hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18005153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Klaus and his relationship with makeup over the years.





	the roses on your face light up the sky

**Author's Note:**

> really been itching to write some klaus stuff about gender/gender nonconformity, etc. makeup just felt like a good place to start. there's only a mild focus on klaus/dave, otherwise it's all gen (lots of klaus & allison bonding) and klaus-centric. each part takes place a few years apart, separated by the ☂ symbol. 
> 
> thanks to hannah for beta'ing!
> 
> enjoy!

Klaus is still nursing his broken jaw when Allison sneaks him a gift.

“Mom and dad can’t see,” she whispers, setting it in Klaus’ lap. “I thought you might…” She trails off, taps the gift twice, and then she’s slipping out of his room as if she was never there. She even shuts the door behind her, giving Klaus at least some semblance of privacy.

He watches the door for a moment longer, just to be sure, then he tears into the wrapping paper. He tosses it all to one side of his bed and stares, hands shaking, at the palette in his hands. It’s something cheap, so says the sticker peeling off in the corner, but…

He blinks away tears and if it wouldn’t hurt like a motherfuck, he’d smile.

He fumbles to open the box and then the palette itself and admires the colors. They’re basic, a bit sparkly: white, black, a couple garish pinks and purples and blues. It’s not much he’d ever really see himself wearing, but then again, he’s never really tried before. Maybe the colors would look good on him, what does he know?

He drags his finger through the brightest pink and looks at the pad of his finger, coated in sparkling pigment. He holds up the palette to look in the dinky square mirror and drags the eyeshadow across his lid slow and careful. It smudges around, smears up close to his eyebrow and into the corner of his eye. He gets a bit on his cheek, somehow.

It’s not much, and he’ll need to wipe it off before mom or dad or _someone_ comes by, but it feels _right_.

**☂**

He steals his first tube of mascara from the corner store a few years later. He slips it into the pocket of his uniform slacks and only takes it out once he’s home. He locks his door just to be sure, pulls out the nearly used up palette, and brushes on the sparkling white power with ease. It’s not his favorite color, but most of the others are cleaned out by now. So white it is, even though his skin is already pale. It goes on easy and shimmers oh so pretty in the afternoon light streaming into his room.

He’s messed around with mascara a little bit, stuff stolen from Allison’s room or asking her how she does it. Nothing is as good as real, hands-on practice, though, so he carefully unscrews the tube and brings the black wand to his eye. His hand shakes and he can’t stop blinking. He grips his wrist with his other hand to force himself to keep steady—

And promptly smears the mascara just below his lid.

“Better than stabbing myself in the eye,” he mutters with a sigh. He glares at himself back in his mirror; he’s glad he convinced dear old dad to get him a vanity when Allison got one. He leans in again, brings the wand to his eye, and catches the edge of the mascara on the tip of his eyelashes. And again, and again, each time getting subtly closer to the root of his lashes. He’s feeling confident, elated even, and he’s about to call it good when his hand slips again and this time, he does stab himself right in the eye.

His eye waters and tears spill out automatically. He drops the mascara to his vanity and bats ineffectively at his eye, at his tears. When he pulls his hand away, it’s smeared in black on the fingertips.

“Fuck,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and winces at the feeling of wet mascara pressing against his cheek. The tears keep dribbling down his cheeks, and Klaus doesn’t have to look to know the tear tracks are a milky black.

He rubs at his cheeks, sits up straighter, and stares at himself in the mirror. His cheeks are ruddy with an embarrassed blush, and one of his eyes is red and rimmed in wet black smudges. The silver is still mostly pristine, but it looks garish next to the disaster of everything else.

Klaus picks up the wand and screws it back into its tube before tossing it into one of the bottom drawers of his vanity. After a moment’s consideration, he tosses the eyeshadow palette in there too. He shuts the drawer with a _snap_.

He wipes off what he can with a spare t-shirt before locking himself in the bathroom and scrubbing everything else off in the shower.

**☂**

“I want you to take me shopping,” Klaus declares, standing at the edge of Allison’s room. It’s one of the rare moments where she and Luther aren’t together, the door almost shut, the exact opposite of subtle. “Please,” he adds, airily, a bored afterthought.

Allison looks up from her book. “For what?”

“Makeup,” Klaus says, proud and firm. His voice only shakes a little bit. He’s ready to fight her for it, since she’s the only one who’s allowed to take the car out besides Luther and she’s the only one of them who wears makeup.

Allison’s eyes light up and she practically throws her book aside. “Let’s go.”

 

 

They don’t go out often; Allison does more than the rest of them, trying her hardest to be a normal teenage girl. They’ve all gotten a little better about it since Ben died, but most of them keep to the mansion, keep their lessons with mom, keep to themselves. As such, Klaus is a bit nervous, skittish. He doesn’t have many casual clothes so he’s in a pair of uniform slacks and a raggedy t-shirt he’s had for too long.

He doesn’t ask how Allison has a credit card, because she’s promised to buy him new clothes in addition to makeup. He’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He lets her drag him to almost every store in the mall: they start with clothing stores, and Allison encourages him to pick out tight fitting jeans with rips and holes in them, shirts with bands on them that Klaus only sort of knows about but likes the look of.

When they finally get to a store with makeup—Allison doesn’t let him pick out anything from the cosmetics at Hot Topic, but Klaus promises himself he’ll go back sometime—Klaus flashes back to being fifteen and black tears streaming down his cheeks. He stops cold at the entrance, arms already laden with bags of too much shit. Shit dad will kill them for having, if he finds out.

“Allison, I, we.” Klaus stops and swallows.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this for years, remember?” She tugs gently at his arm. “If dad finds out, I’ll say it’s all mine. He won’t know the difference.”

Klaus hesitates, then nods, and slowly they walk into the store together. It’s mostly a department store, but there’s a blocky, sort of out of place section toward the front. Along one of its freestanding, black and white striped walls, reads _SEPHORA_.

“We’re gonna get you the full hook up,” Allison promises. “You’ll love it.”

Klaus feels a little like throwing up, but he nods. The butterflies in his stomach are as exciting as they are terrifying.

 

 

It takes _ages_. There’s no way they’re getting back into the mansion without their absence being noticed. It makes Klaus’ palms sweat, even though he’s hardly a stranger to their dad’s discipline. The mausoleum no longer terrifies him the way it used to, but it’s not exactly where he’d like to spend the night.

“Okay, Klaus,” the woman doing his makeup says. “We’re almost done. You ready?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. It’s taken so long and he’s had to sit so still. He’s never been more ready for anything in his life. He thinks he might cry, which would _suck_.

The woman pats his shoulder and then the seat is turning. For a moment, the lights lining the mirror are blinding and Klaus blinks rapidly. He shakes his head to clear the spots from his eyes and then he’s looking and _fuck_ , he really might cry.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

“Klaus!” Allison admonishes, but she’s smiling wide. He can see her in the reflection too. “What do you think?”

“I…” Klaus can’t even form words. His head is swimming and a sob is rising in his throat too quick to stop it.

“Oh, baby, baby,” the salesgirl murmurs. She holds him by the chin and carefully dabs at his eyes with a tissue. “You’re okay, you look beautiful, baby, it’s okay.”

Klaus nods and sniffles. His nose and cheeks are turning a little rosy in the mirror but his eyes are still striking, the sparkle across the apples of his cheeks—highlighter, she called it—is bright and catching. His lips are shimmering with a faint pink, and he can faintly taste the fruity flavor of the gloss when he lets out a shuddering sigh.

“All this is pretty easy to do,” the salesgirl is telling him. “I can walk you through anything. You’re welcome here any time if you’ve got questions, okay?”

“Okay,” Klaus whispers. His throat feels raw, his chest cracked open an exposed. He can’t stop staring at himself. Tears well up in his eyes again and he looks at Allison. “I don’t want to take it off.”

“Then don’t.” Allison smiles. “If dad tries to hassle you, I’ll take care of it.”

Klaus barely has his arms outstretched before Allison is hurrying over and wrapping him up in a hug. He turns his head, careful not to smudge his makeup on her blouse. They hug for probably longer than is normal, than really necessary. People are staring, but when Klaus takes a chance and glances at the mirror, the salesgirl is softly shooing people away.

 

 

In the car ride home, Klaus can’t stop looking at himself in the visor mirror.

“I’ll never be able to recreate this,” Klaus says. He looks at the back seat, loaded with bags of all sizes for the both of them. The back of his neck burns when he catches sight of the pink striped bag, knowing what’s in there. A little something for himself, something he grabbed while Allison was in the fitting rooms. She can probably guess what it is, but she didn’t mention it and Klaus is content to keep at least something to himself, for now, like the pair of lacy panties folded up in tissue paper.

“It just takes practice,” Allison assures him.

“Yeah…” He smiles back at his reflection. “You’ll help me?”

Allison grins. “Of course.”

**☂**

Klaus wrinkles his nose at his reflection staring back at him. He went a bit heavy with the eyeliner, mostly because that’s just _the look_. For junkies, at least. Hookers have a little more class, a more refined art on their face. Klaus might solicit now and then but no one’s picking him up for how pretty his face is, not when they’re just going to shove it down into a pillow immediately.

So he smudges the kohl and shadow around his eyes every night before he goes out, he puts on thick, clumping mascara because it makes his eyes stand out, almost water from how heavy the makeup feels on his skin. Sometimes he’ll spice things up with a dash of rouge on his cheeks or a bit of gloss, but those both usually end up smeared and gone by the end of a good night. His eye makeup is the only thing that really ever stays.

He tousles a hand through his hair and gives himself a wink. It feels artificial, paper thin. _I need a fix_ , he thinks with a shiver. His latest stint in rehab was a good one, satisfying even if he spent every waking moment ignoring the dead and wishing for a hit. He’d managed to last two whole days before the cravings (and the voices, oh _god_ , the voices) got to him. He’s in his tightest pants and what can barely be called a shirt for how short and see-through it is. He’s got no money on him, which might make scoring a little harder, but it’s never stopped him before.

He slips into his boots, throws a jacket over his arm, and sighs. He looks around the dingy little apartment he’s couch-crashing in. A friend of a friend of a friend, who looks at Klaus a little too intensely sometimes. Nothing he isn’t used to, but he could live without it, too. He shrugs on the jacket before giving himself a quick pat-down to make sure he’s got anything he could need: his ID, an expired bus pass, and two joints for later. He ignores his reflection in the cracked hallway mirror and lets himself out of the apartment.

 

 

“I know you,” the lady cop tells him. Klaus rolls his eyes from the backseat.

Of course it was a bust, of course it was too good to be true. He hadn’t even tapped the needle when the door broke down and the dirty motel room was filled with cops and guns and badges. Klaus is painfully sober at this point, his head throbbing with need, and they haven’t confiscated his joints yet but it’s only a matter of time, surely.

“I know you,” the cop says again.

“Yeah, you look familiar,” Klaus drawls back. “You’ve probably picked me up a time or two before, huh? Pretty much everyone has. Everybody wants a taste.”

He meets her gaze in the rearview mirror and bites the inside of his cheek at the glare staring back at him.

“You’re Diego’s brother.”

His blood turns to ice. He makes a noncommittal sound.

“Klaus, right?”

Another weak sound. Klaus isn’t sure he could form words right now if he wanted to. His throat feels tight, and his eyes are starting to water. If he cries, he’ll look downright insane, streaks of black running down his cheeks. He wipes preemptively at his eyes but they’re already coming away wet and stained black.

“Is there somewhere I can take you?” The cop asks. “Someone you’re staying with?”

“You’re not arresting me?”

She sighs. “You’re not high, you were not actually in possession of anything, you didn’t exchange money for anything.”

Klaus hums in acknowledgement and deliberately doesn’t mention the joints. He’d dropped the needle in shock with the door burst open, and he’d promised the dealer a few favors _after_ the first hit, so it’s all true enough. “Not even an overnight?”

“Not for my friend’s brother.”

Klaus scoffs. “Diego would act like he didn’t even know me, if he saw me.”

She only sighs. After a moment’s silence, she says, “My name is Eudora. You can stay with me, if you want.”

Klaus leans his head against the window. “You don’t have to do that all because you know my brother. Diego would probably be pissed at you if he found out, actually.”

“I don’t really care,” she replies sharply. “Diego’s my friend, not my boss and not my babysitter.”

Klaus stares at her even though she’s watching the road now. “Okay,” he whispers. “That would be…nice.”

Eudora flashes him a grin. “Good.”

The rest of the drive is silent, except for when Eudora calls in to say she’s heading home early. She gets confirmation that the situation is handled, all coming over the static from her radio, and then they’re off to her apartment. It’s nothing fancy, not gated or needing to be buzzed in. Just a simple place, simple beige walls and white trim and a little overhang to protect cars.

Eudora helps him out and keeps a hand curled around his elbow all the way up the stairs and until they’re inside.

“You’re not getting high tonight,” she tells him once she’s finally let go. “I know about those joints in your jeans. If you wanna smoke them, you’re out. It’s not illegal, so I can’t stop you.”

Klaus nods. “Do you…have some place I could wash up?” He asks after a second. He feels out of place, like a stain on a pristine tablecloth. He feels like a speck of dirt.

Eudora’s expression softens. “C’mon. I might have something you can change into, too.” She takes him by the elbow once more, gently, and guides him down the hall to the bathroom. “There’s towels under the sink, I’ll look for some clothes.”

Klaus nods but doesn’t move. His head is still aching and throbbing; feels a little bit like it might just fall off. Eudora’s watching him carefully. He stays stock still as she moves, reaches past him to the cabinet above the sink and pulls out a white packet before setting it on the smudged marble countertop.

“Makeup wipes,” she says. “Take that shit off your face. You’ll thank me for it. Everything else you’ll need is in the rack.” With that, she pulls the bathroom door all the way shut.

Klaus moves on autopilot. He shrugs out of his clothes until all that’s left are his too-small boxer briefs, then reaches for the makeup wipes. He forces himself to look in the mirror over the sink and drags one wipe over his eye, under it, scrubs it against his lashes. It’s coated in black and gray by the time his skin is clear, and that’s only one eye. He grabs a second wipe and repeats the process, his breathing getting easier with each swipe.

He looks away hurriedly once all the makeup is gone and steps into the shower. The spray starts off cold until he cranks the dial all the way to one side, and then it’s scalding hot. He tips his head under the spray and lets it beat at his face like hard rain.

 

 

He’s toweling off when Eudora knocks at the door.

“Clothes for you,” she says.

He makes sure the towel is secure around his waist before pulling the door open. Eudora’s got sweatpants and a sweatshirt folded up in her arms.

“They’re Diego’s,” she says as she passes them over. “But he was scrawnier when he left them here, so they should fit okay.”

Klaus nods and takes the clothes from her. “Thank you, for this. You didn’t have to.”

Eudora stares at him, intense but kind. “No one deserves to sleep on the streets. You don’t seem like a bad guy, Klaus.” She reaches out, a slow and hesitant hand. “I do like you better without the raccoon eyes, though.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and turns his head away. “It’s that junkie chic, you know.”

“I do know,” she replies. “But that doesn’t have to be you.”

Klaus gives her a sad smile. “Maybe not.”

 

 

Klaus waits till Eudora’s asleep—or at least, until he thinks she’s asleep—before changing back into his clothes, leaving Diego’s folded up on the couch, and slipping out of the apartment. He feels naked, leaving with no makeup on, nothing around his eyes, but it’s late enough that there’s no one around to notice.

**☂**

Klaus sees it as he’s passing the store one day. A big, beautiful ad, Allison looking stunning as always. Some new cosmetic line, aptly titled _RUMOURS_. Klaus slips into the store, ignores the suspicious stares from the people working, and examines the collection for ages. He picks up every piece in the line, every lipgloss and lipstick and highlighter and mascara. He wants to pocket them all, wants to knock the whole display over.

Instead, he grabs something off the rack, a gloss in a sort of lavender color, mostly clear but full of iridescent sparkles. He slips it up his sleeve and strolls out of the store, knowing full well how many glares at pinned at his back. What’s one lipgloss, anyway?

He waits until he’s a good distance away from the store to try it on. Doesn’t really suit him, too pale for him, not enough pigment. But the sparkle is nice, soothing. The flavor is something sweet but unidentifiable. He could see Allison wearing this, wonders if she does, or if that’s a little too narcissistic.

He tosses the lipgloss in the bin on his way out of the alley.  

**☂**

There’s blood on Klaus hands and it’s black as tar. It stinks like metal, like ash, like dirty mulch under his fingernails. He scrubs at his cheeks and they come away wetter, blacker than before. _Makeup_ , he thinks with a bitter laugh. He kept buying little cosmetics in secret; it brought him comfort, like some connection to who he was in the future.

Now, though, it just stings. His eyes are watering and hurt, burning like someone splashed acid in them. He rubs his face with the hem of his shirt, but the metallic scent only grows. With it comes the scent of decay, already starting to permeate the air. Klaus thinks he might be sick. Dave’s dead and Klaus can’t stop crying, can’t fucking breathe.

He reaches out and cradles Dave’s head in his hands, smears inky black makeup across cold cheeks. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he hisses.

**☂**

The world is saved, the mansion is still standing, and Klaus stares at the palette in his hands. He found it sitting on his vanity when they all got back from the past. He’s got quite an array in this universe, things he only remembers having back when they were younger. But nothing here is dusty, nothing left untouched for long.

He reaches for a soft brown pencil sitting in a cup by the edge of his vanity and pulls it closer. He opens the palette and dips the pad of his finger into a shimmering, pastel pink. It’s not his usual style, not something he’s really ever worn. But the sun streaming in through his window is warm and bright and Klaus wants to feel the same.

With gently shaking hands, he leans against the vanity, and gets to work.

 

 

Vanya, Ben, and Allison are all gathered around the table when he finally comes back downstairs. It took him a while to remember how to apply eyeshadow without going full raccoon about it, and how to blend shades along his brow bone like he used to do so well. It took him twenty minutes to get his hands to stop shaking enough to even attempt eyeliner and mascara. He hasn’t done anything else, not face powders or blushes or highlighters or anything; he feels a little incomplete, maybe, like a painting with no frame.

But Allison lights up when he walks into the room, and she leaps to her feet. “You look lovely!” She whispers, her voice still struggling to return.

“Thanks,” he replies. He lets her usher him over to the table and doesn’t protest when she gets him a glass of orange juice. “Just needed to feel normal, for a while.”

Vanya smiles at him and nods. Ben’s grinning wide, even reaches out and takes Klaus by the chin, turning him this way and that to get a better look.

“Much better,” Ben says, not unkind. He’d been there through most of it, through almost all of Klaus’ life. To have him real and tangible again, to feel warmth when Ben touches him instead of an aching chill, is almost better that the feeling of makeup itself.

“What’re we talking about?” Diego asks as he strolls into the kitchen. Klaus looks over by way of an answer and Diego stops short, his mouth falling open. “Oh.”

Klaus feels his cheeks reddening.

“Looks good.” Diego comes a little closer. “Nice.”

Klaus snorts and rolls his eyes, the faint flush of embarrassment rapidly fading. “Thanks, bro,” he taunts.

Diego ruffles his hair and shoves him playfully. “You don’t need me to tell you that you look good.”

Klaus hides his grin against the lip of his glass.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [tumblr](http://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/)! feel free to come chat or send me simple one word/one sentence requests!! i'd love to have more ppl to talk w/ TUA or kliego about!!


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